


As Below So Above

by badwolf



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Consensual But Horrifying and Painful Sex, Consensual Non-Consent, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Knotting, M/M, Monsterfucking ahoy!, Satanism, Virgin Sacrifice, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22946479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolf/pseuds/badwolf
Summary: "The thing about sacrifice,” Tim had said, “Is that it has to be a fucking sacrifice. Idiots on TV always get it wrong. Thinking the virginisthe sacrifice, not the onemakingthe sacrifice. Slitting a virgin’s throat doesn’t get you anything other than a dead virgin and a waste of perfectly good magic."
Relationships: John 5/Corey Taylor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	As Below So Above

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing started when dysphorie showed me [this](https://imgur.com/diSVgRB) picture, and all I could think was John looked a whole lot like he was laying on an altar. And then this fic was born.

Confirmation is a serious decision, John knows this. 

Despite what everyone might think John knows exactly what he has volunteered for. Well, not _exactly_ exactly. Only people who have survived the ritual actually know exactly what the ritual is. But John knows enough to know he wants this. Has known he was destined to do this since he was a teen, thirteen years old, and the ritual was first mentioned by the youth pastor. Well, he’s still a teen now, but at 19 John feels that is more of a technicality than a fact. 

Even now the pews are only filled by maybe a quarter of the congregation. It makes the temple feel bigger, having so much free space. John’s never seen it so empty in his whole life. 

Thankfully his parents aren’t here, even though they have both been Confirmed themselves. They all mutually agreed it was best for them not to come. For their sake if the ritual goes wrong and for John’s sake if it goes right. 

It's odd, walking up the aisle towards the pulpit in nothing but the simple ceremonial robe. John has never felt this open, never had anything more than his own finger inside himself. Certainly never been properly stretched and slicked and then forced to walk another forty feet with lube dripping down his thighs.

_“Shhh” Tim ran his hand down John's flank, gentling him like it wasn’t Tim’s fault John had flinched away in the first place. Being naked and bent over the desk of his hot pastor's office was difficult enough to deal with without Tim snapping his latex gloves like an asshole. John chose to not argue the point, the faster this was over with the sooner the ritual could begin._

_At least the lube had been warmed up. Tim slipped his first finger in without warning or ceremony, like every other part of their sessions. It was uncomfortable but hardly a new sensation. John’s explored himself plenty and on the regular._

_John had had so many fantasies about this, but in those Tim was rubbing over his prostate endlessly, not intentionally avoiding it. The reality was proving to be far more clinical and sterile than John thought possible given the situation._

_A quick peek over his shoulder proved him right: Tim looked bored. Focused on the task at hand, on working in a second finger. Mechanical in his motions._

_The second finger hurt, a lot. John wasn’t prepared for the burn as Tim’s fingers scissored and moved. A small sound escaped despite John's best effort. Another long pet along his side, some gentle words John can’t hear over the static in his head._

_This was a mercy. John knew that. Knew that some parishes didn't even let this basic level of preparation happen and instead forced the sacrifice to take it dry. Knowing that didn't make the third finger easier to take._

As grateful as John is for the prep, and he is grateful, the robe is sticking to his thighs now. Can anyone else see? Surely they can see. How could they miss it?

A light touch to the back snaps John from his spiralling thought. Tim, right. Tim is still next to him and guiding him.

Deacon Manson is droning on about the glorious purpose of today's gathering. It's soothing in its familiarity. John grew up listening to Manson’s grandstanding, sat in these pews, graffitied the confessional by the door. A small wave of calm spreads through his chest, unclenching his muscles as it passes through him.

Tim deftly guides John to the altar, not giving him enough space to hesitate at the edge of the ritual circle. The blush is already creeping up John’s neck before they even reach the foot of the altar. His eyes keep darting to the smaller circle of sigils drawn only a few feet away. 

Shit, this is actually happening.

John holds himself as still as he can while Tim makes quick work of disrobing him. The act of Tim removing the robe somehow more embarrassing than if John has been allowed to strip on his own. 

The altar is at an awkward height for John to sit back onto it, though he can’t tell if that comes from the altar being too tall or him not being tall enough. But he manages, scooting back into position but not yet laying himself down. 

In the background Manson has switched to Latin, the rhythm of the invocation helping soothe away the remaining nerves. The cadence and volume stay exactly the same, but John can still feel the shift as the ritual is activated. Every hair on John’s body, or the few hairs he hadn’t shaved off that morning at least, stands on edge. 

It’s a gradual thing at first, the way the air inside the sigils starts to condense and darken. John might have missed it, if he hadn’t been looking at that moment. The space folds in on itself in a way that shouldn't be possible. Just as quickly the air unfolds itself again, unveiling the creature. 

At first John’s brain refuses to decipher what he's looking at. 

Inside the circle stands what could be mistaken for a man, if 2/3rds of its face wasn't missing. From the lower jaw down the creature has human, if slightly sickly, ashen colored skin. But from the jaw up any notion of humanity is lost. Where skin should be, wet grey bone stands instead. It isn't a skull. The creature's face is pure bone, free of fat or muscle or skin. Somehow it has a nose. A proper nose, not just a suggestion of where a nose once was, like John had seen on skulls in bio class. Instead of white the bone has a dull damp gray hue. Flesh clings to the creature's lower jawline, thick rusted wire sewn into the skin and bone. 

Then it steps forward. Finally out of the shadows enough to see its body properly.

_Oh...that’s why Tim said it was ok to scream_

While it looks human for the most part, the monster swinging between its legs is undeniably demonic. Hard and standing at attention already, the creature’s cock is one of the most terrifying things John has ever seen. The skin is the same greying color as it’s body. Large barbs line down the shaft in an irregular pattern, stopping only an inch or so from the base. There, it ends in a bulbous swell. 

The creature isn’t actually that tall. Maybe an inch or two taller than John himself, but it's hard to tell with how the creature hunches itself forward. It has so much more mass than John though; body thick with muscle, neck the size of John's thigh, everything about the way it holds itself screaming violence. Like it’s body the creature’s cock isn't too long, but it is _thick_. Solid. Taking that thing would be difficult enough without the spines or engorged knot. 

For the first time that night serious apprehension starts to coil in John’s gut. The feeling spreads when he realizes how silent the room has gone. Manson has stopped his prayer, scroll forgotten on the pulpit as he stares at the creature in shock. Even the congregation seems to hold its collective breath, the mass of people freezing in their seats. 

John’s eyes dart from point to point, always flicking back to make sure the creature hasn’t yet advanced on him. 

Manson is never at a loss for words, never. Growing up in the temple John can’t even count the number of times he had desperately prayed for the pastor to stop talking already. Now John wishes for him to start again, for anyone to start talking. To explain what the hell's gone wrong with the ceremony and what he should do now. 

_“Don’t panic,” Tim said. “If something goes wrong, don’t freak out. I’ll be in the circle, right next to you the whole time.”_

_Nothing would go wrong though, John knew it. His faith was strong and his virtue was clean. Nothing would go wrong._

The apprehension is on the verge of becoming panic when Manson finally breaks the silence.

“Ah…,” he says, recovering enough to fake confidence that John doubts he has at this moment. “I did not expect one of The Nine to grace us this evening.” 

_Oh._

That explains the silence. No wonder everyone is terrified. 

Manson continues. “We are all blessed by your presence.” With that, the pastor bows to the creature then picks the scroll back up and starts the chant from where he had let it die. John knows this part, he's been forced to rehearse the verse enough. 

Right on cue, Tim steps forward, placing a hand on John's shoulder. 

“Remember,” He says, voice pitched low enough that John doubts even Pastor Manson can hear it. “You can back out now, no shame in that.” 

John nods, he remembers. Tim has done his job well. 

_“The thing about sacrifice,” Tim had said, “Is that it has to be a fucking sacrifice.” He stopped to take another drag from his self rolled and stinking cigarette. The sun had set about an hour ago, the session taking much longer than the originally allotted time John had been scheduled for. He couldn’t help it, he had so many questions. His Confirmation had to be perfect, he needed to know everything._

_“It’s not a fucking transaction,” Tim continued, “You aren’t buying anything with your cherry. Idiots on TV always get it wrong. Thinking the virgin is the sacrifice, not the one making the sacrifice. Slitting a virgin’s throat doesn’t get you anything other than a dead virgin and a waste of perfectly good magic."_

_John had heard this before, it was one of Tim’s favorite things to rant about. But he didn’t dare interrupt Tim now._

_“You make the sacrifice and if your faith is true you will be rewarded with a dark patron, something to guide and watch over you. Their patronage is a reward for your true faith, it isn’t the goal of the sacrifice though. You need to be just as willing to do this if there wasn’t going to be a reward for it. You can’t go into this treating it like something you endure to earn a super special decoder ring.”_

_Tim ashed his cigarette. His notes for the session had fallen by the wayside a while ago, discarded in the face of John's never-ending questions. This was one of the reasons Tim was John’s favorite, he had answered each question. Tim hadn’t even checked his watch since he called John into the office. He always made time for John._

_“What happens if my faith isn’t true?” John asked._

_“Depending on who answers the summons...” Tim said. “If you’re very, very lucky the demon will kill you.”_

_“And if I’m not lucky?" John knew he didn’t technically need to know, his faith was as pure as his virtue. But knowledge was power and the more he knew about the ritual the better he felt._

_Tim blew out a long stream of smoke. Several emotions flashed across his face before he suddenly shifted in his chair, giving John his entire focus._

_“If your faith is not true,” Tim starts, “it's…bad. I’ve only seen it in person once. As soon as we finished the summoning I knew something was wrong. It was on him before I could even recite my part, before the chains were on. Poor fucker tried to fight but good luck fighting that thing. It pinned him down and fucked him to death. Right there. Fucking looked at me the whole time too.”_

Last chance to back out. All John has to do is say the word and everything ends.

Instead, John recites his part of the ritual. Tim nods, his face devoid of emotion now, and motions for John to lay down. The bench is cold under his skin. Leather isn’t the most comfortable thing to touch in the best of circumstances. Trying to get comfortable while the monster that’s about to fuck him bloody watches isn’t the best of circumstances. 

The cold of the first manacle closing around his wrist shocks a gasp from him. In his peripherals John sees the thing move but he forces himself not to jerk his attention back to it. The second manacle locks around him. It’s done, John couldn’t back out now even if he wanted to. 

Tim says a few more words in Latin, before bowing to the creature and backing away several steps. John can now barely see Tim out of his peripheral vision. Chained down to the altar as he is, John would have to crane his neck to see more. But still, Tim’s blurred form is right where he promised he would be. 

The creature closes the distance between them before Tim’s finished moving. The cold tip of the monster's cock brushes John thigh as it throws itself onto him. He startles badly enough the altar creaks with his flinch. Tim had warned him about that, the temperature. But it’s fine, everything is fine. John can do this. 

The creatures hunches itself over John’s small frame as it mounts him, blocking everything else out of John’s line of sight. He bites down on a gasp as it ruts at him, sliding itself up John's crack twice before lining itself up. Its cockhead nudges insistently at him, pressing its crown into him before finally stopping.

The preparation really was a mercy. 

John forces himself to open his eyes, hadn’t even realized he was squeezing them shut until that moment. The demon holds itself preternaturally still, like its cock isn't already an inch inside John. Its bleach-filled eyes meet John’s. Then it slams the rest of the way in.

Each ridge and spine makes itself known, deeper than John has ever felt anything before. Its knot catches but with another grunt the demon forces itself all the way inside. John swallows the scream that desperately wants out. The thing is still just looking at him, something that might be a smile on its mangled face. It grinds against John and John breaks. His body thrashes against the restraints on pure instinct, trying to get away from the intrusion. The barbs rip at John’s insides while its knot pushes at his rim every time he moves.

It pulls out quickly, seemingly too impatient now to bother dragging the moment out more. It falls into a brutal rhythm, slow but deep, horrible thrusts. John tries to breathe through the pain but it overwhelms him, his body jarring at every thrust and grind. He hadn't even realized he was still edging away from it as far back as the manacles would let him, until it digs it’s slightly too long claws into John’s shoulder and hip, hauling him back down the altar. 

With a grunt, it steps a leg up onto the altar. Crouching over John, mounting him properly. Another snap of its hips and pain races up John’s spine as he feels himself tearing on its swelling knot. The thrusts are slamming the creature’s pelvic bone into John hard enough that he can feel bruises forming. Then it’s dragging its cock back out only to continue rutting back into him.

Tim was right, screaming actually does help. 

_“Most important advice I can give you,” Tim’s cigarette ran out ages ago, but he still held the filter between his long fingers. “No matter what happens don’t beg. Scream all you want, it helps with the pain sometimes. But don’t fucking beg. They will just take it as a sign of weakness.”_

_“Wait, what happens if they think that?" John asked._

_“Oh, you still get your patron,” Tim reassured him. “but you don’t exactly want to create an eternal bond with a creature that thinks you're a pussy, do you?”_

_“No, I guess not,” John said. “So no begging."_

_“Yeah, no begging, no screaming for help,” Tim said. “Not that it will do any good, nothing can stop the ritual once you are chained down. No matter what happens, you're on your own from there on out.”_

_“Well not my own, ” John reminds him._

_“Ok, true.” Tim smiled at that. Reached forward to ruffle John's hair. “But I won't be able to do more than talk to you, maybe touch your shoulder, depending on who it is.”_

Tears render John’s vision too blurry to see the thing’s horrific face. It is slamming into him now, measured pace starting to give way to more frenzied rutting that would be shoving John up the altar if it wasn’t for the death grip on his hips. Blood is already dripping down to the stone, its claws cutting into John’s skin with ease. Best not to think about where else he might be bleeding from.

Another scream is ripped from John’s throat as a barb catches along something sensitive inside him. John loses his breath to the pain, more screams tumbling from him than he can vocalize. 

Movement to his right catches his eye, almost startling John with the knowledge that more than just the pain exists in the world at this moment. 

Tim slinks forward, bowing his head ever so slightly in deference to the creature. A low growl is the only reaction, but Tim still reaches out and draws his fingers through John’s hair. 

Instantly John leans into the contact, grounding himself against Tim’s palm. Tim’s other hand slips around and cradles John’s face. John can barely hear what Tim’s saying. It’s more mindless soothings than words, but it’s enough. Above him the thing ruts away, growls vibrating up John’s sternum. Tim sneers back, showing his teeth, and pets John again. 

Its knot catches during the backstroke, pulling a scream from John. The creature doesn’t even slow down, punching another cry out of John. Each thrust, in and out, catches and pulls. One after the other the catches become tighter and the thrusts more violent, John's body refusing to let it out or back in. 

Finally, it shoves in one last time, pushing its knot past John’s painfully stretched hole and grinding deep into him. The knot rips at him when it tries to pull out, locking them together. John’s insides grip at the spines, each individual one stabbing into him. 

Realizing they are tied, the demon shifts it’s angle and grinds its knot against John. A few more halted thrusts and it freezes.

The cold shocks John into another shout, the pain on his raw throat almost dragging another right after. The creature’s come is so cold it burns, like someone has poured acid into him. Tim’s hands cushion his head as John jerks against the altar trying to find a way to escape the pain. But there is no escape from it, and the creature keeps filling him, each grind down bringing another cold wave of fire along John’s insides. 

In the space of half a breath a new feeling crashes over him. It’s too alien to even be called pleasure, something pure and primal. It overlays the agony but doesn’t lessen it at all. The whiplash of both sensations would be enough to leave John reeling, but they both continue to build and fold over each other, dragging John’s soul apart in opposite directions. 

Tim hisses and jerks back from John like he's been burned. John desperately wants to beg for Tim to come back, but the words can’t form. Nothing can form. There is only the pain and the pleasure. 

The creature looks away from John’s face for the first time since it mounted him. John follows its eyes, down to his own chest.

When did he come?

How?

John hadn’t even been hard. But there it is, John’s jizz smeared and pooled on himself. The creature hunches forward, leaning in to lick at John’s mess. Another pulse of pleasure shoots through him in tandem with a fresh burst of fire. 

Time stretches and bends, John can’t tell how long he’s been on the altar or how long the demon has been tied in him. Tim is still by his side, but without the older man’s grounding touch John is cast adrift. Slowly, the waves of pleasure lessen, each one losing a fraction of its intensity until all that is left is the pain. 

“Almost there” Tim whispers. 

John doesn’t even have the energy to flinch when the creature snarls at Tim one last time before pulling itself free. The pain eases slightly now that sharp barbs aren’t forcing the creature’s come against his insides. It’s still painful but after a few breaths John can think again, focus on more than just that.

The creature leaves John’s field of view, but he can’t make himself move to keep it in his sight. Besides, it was over. John survived. 

Distantly he can hear Manson concluding the ritual. Saying the words to send the demon back, reciting the blessing, and finally, fucking finally calling for the congregation to rise. The noise of people departing fills the chamber. Everyone leaves quickly, trying to spare John what's left of his dignity. There's no point in having an audience when he tries to walk after this.

“John,” Tim pulls him back to the present. The chains are already undone. John tries not to cringe at the bruises blooming around his wrists. 

“John,” Tim calls again, louder this time. He’s starting to look concerned.

“Ye-” John’s voice catches in his raw throat mid-word. The attempt to clear his throat leaves him wincing. 

“Here, this might help.” Tim hands him a cough drop. It’s cherry-flavoured. John winces through a giggle and even Tim can’t suppress a small smile. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

He’s one very slim step above useless while Tim slips the robe back on him. Every muscle aches and even the tiniest of movements send pain shooting through him. But they manage. Once John is decent Tim pulls one of John’s arms over his shoulder and helps John to his feet. 

The trip back to the rectory takes three times as long as the walk from it. Every step jars a hiss from John, even as Tim does his best to steady him. 

Halfway there a new feeling blossoms low inside John’s chest. It’s foreign and warm and terrifying in its newness. John stops mid-step, rubbing at his sternum as if he could somehow write this off as a muscle spasm. 

“Tim?” John gasps. Then he gasps again at the absence of pain. His throat still aches, but he no longer feels like he’s coughing up glass with each word.

“Hey, there you go,” Tim says. He pulls at John more insistently towards the office. “That’s the bond, don’t fight it. Just let it wash over you ok?”

John nodes numbly as he lets Tim herd him through the heavy oak door.

“It’ll fade soon enough,” Tim continues. “But it won’t leave completely. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” Tim deposits John onto the love seat across from his desk, letting John fall to his side. 

With that Tim goes to gather the medical supplies that have been laid out on his desk. His movements are measured and sure.

No urgency.

John giggles again at the revelation. There is no urgency. John has succeeded. He has been Confirmed. 

The warmth in his chest flares slightly before returning to its low simmer. Otherworldly satisfaction radiates through his every cell but it hardly eclipses his own rapture. 

**Author's Note:**

> Shout outs to [@dysphorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie) for both betaing and starting the John 5 Is A Monsterfucker trend with their Kinktober stuff last year. 
> 
> Also massive thanks to my bff [@angularmomentum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angularmomentum) for betaing and cheerleading.


End file.
